


All's Fair in Love and War

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Newspaper AU, Post-Break Up, Second Chances, former drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is the powerful editor of a scandalous tabloid and Mycroft Holmes's former longtime lover.  Unfortunately, the ‘former’ part doesn’t sit well with Mr. Lestrade and he hopes that he might be able to change that.  Mycroft, however, seeks to change <i>other</i> things and Greg has some hard decisions to make if he wants Mycroft back in his life...</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Fair in Love and War

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2015 Gravesgiving and [accompanies this gifset](http://eventhorizon451.tumblr.com/post/134023552816/greg-lestrade-is-the-powerful-editor-of-a)...

      “Yes?”

      “I saw you on the telly last night, Mr. Holmes. You looked marvelous, as usual.”

      “Gregory…”

      “That’s my name and it sounds absolutely seductive rolling around on that tongue of yours.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed the snarl that was working its way onto his lips.

      “I believe I have informed you many times that I do not appreciate that sort of talk.”

      “You used to.  You used to a lot.  In fact, there used to be a _very_ lot of things you liked to do with your tongue.”

Now, he was counting slowly to three to let his temper and, damnably, his libido settle back to a comfortable level.  Apparently, Gregory Lestrade, salacious so-termed newspaper editor did not find a rather nasty dissolution of a relationship to be an impediment to agitating the _other_ member of that former relationship pairing.

      “You are supposed to phone me only for professional reasons, Gregory, so if you have only called to harass…”

      “Touchy, love.  You’re very touchy today.  After the whiffs I’ve been getting on public sentiment for the current government blunder, though, I’m not surprised.  I’ll forgive you if you come out for a drink with me.”

      “I have no intention of socializing with you and you are well aware of the fact.  As for public sentiment, our own sources inform us that very little has changed since the unfortunate… incident.  As is typical, you are sensationalizing the trivial in hopes of securing further notoriety for your fish wrapper.”

      “And it’s a privileged fish that gets nestled between our pages, I’ll have you know.  Privileged chips, too.  Now I’m hungry.  Come and have lunch with me.  You know you want to.  We can go to that little restaurant you love for…”

      “I believe our conversation is at an end.  I do hope the lack of information you obtained sits well with your meal.”

Lestrade smiled at his mobile and smiled harder knowing what the particular rushed tone of Mycroft’s voice meant, at least when talking to him.  God, but the man was amazing.  Ran the fucking government and nobody was the wiser.  Ran several, truth be told, when they botched matters themselves so badly that his Mycroft had to step in and see things sorted.  And the sex they’d had when _that_ happened!  That was the best.  But… so was every time they had sex.  Even sleepy, lazy Sunday morning sex when his Mycroft’s eyes were heavy and that hair of his was a complete mess… shite!  Forgot to mention the hair!  Have to fix that, it was the real reason he fucking called!

      “Yes?”

      “What the fuck is going on with your hair?  It could scare small children.”

      “GREGORY!”

      “Don’t you have that caller identification on your phone?  You really shouldn’t suffer that much surprise.  It can’t be good for your heart.  If you have a heart attack hearing my sexy voice, can I donate your hair to a toupee museum or something?”

      “You will listen to me, Gregory Lestrade, and listen to me very, very carefully.  I do not want you phoning me again.  Not for professional reasons, not for a comment, not to verify information, not for any reason whatsoever.  Delete my number from your phone and consider me persona non grata for the remainder of eternity.”

      “You know how hard I get when you’re commanding.”

Ooh, Mycroft usually didn’t use words like that in public, so he was probably doubly angry now.  Best not phone back and ask for the name of his barber.  It really was horrid hair, though.  Probably going the extra league to seem dowdy and insignificant, what with a shift in the government winds blowing.  Lots of press putting many eyes through many keyholes and his Mycroft was one secret that nobody could be allowed to discover.  Nobody but him, at least, but that was one story he’d never print, no matter how morally-bankrupt and publicity-hungry he might be.  Which was a _lot_.  Some things just weren’t worth it, though.  His Mycroft was one of them… even if Mycroft didn’t want to be _his_ Mycroft anymore.

Not that he could blame him, because if there was a more colossal arse on the planet than the arse sitting in this chair, then the planet could only hope the bastard was in a cage because that was not a force you wanted to unleash on this feeble earth.  He didn’t have one illusion about what a miserable person he was, not a one.  And he’d been miserable to Mycroft, too.  The stunts he pulled, the embarrassment he caused… Mycroft was right to leave.  The fact _he’d_ never healed from it wasn’t important.  The fact he still woke in the morning and expected to roll over and wrap his arms around the most beautiful body he’d even touched was completely immaterial.  That nobody in the world was as smart and funny as his Mycroft and his heart fucking ached like it was being pressed in a vice every time he saw that beautiful face on the  telly or in the papers… none of that mattered.  It hurt, it made him feel every bit the reprobate he knew he was to lose the most wonderful thing in his life… but it didn’t matter.  Nothing really mattered anymore …

__________

Don’t do it.  Do _not_ do it.  Mycroft said not to call and even though it’s been two weeks, he probably still remembers he said it and will have your car towed every day for the next month and the tax man knocking at your door if you bother him again.  Do not put your fingers on that phone.  Are you listening?  Why is your hand moving?  You idiot… oh.  He’s not answering.  Salvation!  Saved from your own idiocy.  Wait… now what are you doing?  Why are you… no texting!  Have you gone mad?  Mycroft hates texting!  Except when it’s sexy texting.  He likes that a lot.  Well, isn’t it lucky that’s exactly what you’re doing …

_I’m picturing you naked in my mind… GL_

_WHAT!  Are you insane? – MH_

_Nothing insane about imaging that long, gorgeous cock of yours – GL_

_And the filthy things I want to do to it – GL_

_I am in a meeting you madman! – MH_

_Didn’t know that.  Not sorry though – GL_

_Your brain works best when it’s being… stimulated – GL_

_Remember when I sucked you off in the bathroom at the opera? – GL_

_That was **very** stimulating – GL_

      “Mycroft?  Are you listening?”

      “I… yes.  Just a small issue in the banking district about which I asked to be kept informed.”

      “Does the banking district normally make you blush?”

      “I have been slightly under the weather these past two days and I do believe I am running a slight fever.”

Not that the man chairing the meeting believed a word of it, but since his position in government hinged greatly on the humors of the man who was still blushing like a new bride, decided discretion was the better part of valor.  Just as long as it wasn’t that dastardly Lestrade fellow… the man was an unrepentant villain and an utter parasite on society.  A useful parasite, at times, but a parasite, nonetheless…

      “Very well.  Do take the remainder of the day off, if required.”

      “Thank you, I shall give that a great deal of consideration.”

For he would need time to find Gregory, strangle him, and hide the body.  That would fully occupy the afternoon, especially if he stopped for tea.

_Do not text me again.  Ever. – MH_

_Why not?  It’s fun. – GL_

_It most certainly is not and you are interfering with my work – MH_

_Speaking of sucking you off, remember when I did it under your desk? – GL_

_I don’t think that lad who delivered the mail suspected a thing – GL_

_Never again, Gregory.  That is my final word. – MH_

Lestrade sent another few texts, but wasn’t surprised they weren’t answered.  That was pretty juvenile.  Funny, but juvenile.  Why was he always a blasted child when he talked to Mycroft?  That wasn’t sexy.  When things were good, and they were _very_ good for a long time, it was when he was… normal.  Just Greg Lestrade, the bloke who worked his way up the reporter ranks to plant his bum on the throne and start pulling the strings.  Mycroft had liked that person.  More than liked, really.  There was another ‘L’ word they’d used and it was a word he never thought he’d ever use in this life, but he’d meant it.  Meant it to the depths of his soul and never once regretted saying it.

Then he’d decided that there was more fun to be had in this world and shite to write about that was a _certainly_ more fun than the dreary old news that never gave anyone a bit of a shock or a giggle or a wink-wink-nudge-nudge… juvenile.  Wasn’t helped by the booze or pills, either. That made Mycroft volcanically angry.  Not just angry, though.  Concerned, worried and hurt when his concern and worry got shoved back into his face with a sneer thrown in for good measure.  Fucking infantile, that was.  He was a complete infant and Mycroft had finally said fuck it all and had a crew of blokes move everything he owned into a new flat in one morning, leaving the infant in the old, emptier flat with his booze and pills and salacious, scandalous stories that sold scads of newspapers and his soul to the devil.

He was cleaner now, though.  The pills and other drugs were gone, there was less booze in his day.  He still made his living slinging mud and exposing what decent people didn’t want exposed and, no, that didn’t sit well in his gut sometimes, but it paid his rather enormous bills for his rather enormous lifestyle and… well, a man deserved to enjoy the fruit of his labors, didn’t he?  It would be nice to have someone to share those fruits with, though.  Someone tall, who enjoyed a long bath with a glass of wine in one hand and a book in another.  And, who didn’t mind if someone else was in the bath doing the same…

__________

God, but Mycroft looked good.  The hair was still rubbish, but he was sexy and gorgeous and totally lickable, anyway.  He shouldn’t be on telly like that, so everyone could see how his eyes were the lovliest things in the world and that nose… the nose that was perfect for kissing right after waking up in the morning.  Probably shouldn’t have had that drink.  Or three.  Not the scotch’s fault that today was crap.  Major story blows up in their faces, another they lose to another fucking rag… and now his Mycroft was on telly looking like a king and he was here in this shitty office… very handsome, but still shitty office… getting pissed.  Alone.  Nobody dared bother him after the bollicking they’d gotten for making today the fuckfest it was and putting him at the center of it.  Wankers.  Mycroft had always been fabulous at making fucking fuckfest days seem not so… fucky.  It had been what… a good month since the lovely Mycroft Holmes had been graced with the rough and sexy voice of one Greg Lestrade?  That was a month too long in his opinion.  Time to change that…

      “Mycroft!  You looked amazing tonight.  Totally fuckable, which, as you know, is a look you wear well.”

      “Gregory… why are you calling me?  Are you… you sound drunk.”

      “Maybe I am.  I know someone who used to like a few good whiskies in the evening, so feel free to come by and have a few with me, why don’t you?”

      “I have no intention of seeing you again, let alone when you are intoxicated.”

      “Why not?  You said I was an adorable drunk once upon a time.”

      “That time is far in the past.”

      “Doesn’t have to be.  Come out with me, Mycroft.  Let’s go to that club that you always claimed to hate but never said no to when I dragged you out.  Come out with me for a few drinks.  We can talk and… just come out with me, love.”

      “Gregory, please do not call me that.”

The soft, frustrated tone of Mycroft’s voice hit Lestrade in the chest and set in motion a wave of regret and loss that came flowing out before he could stop it.

      “But, I _want_ to.  I miss you, love.  I miss you so much… it tears at me and not a day goes by I don’t feel shredded because I lost you.  Every single day I know how much better that day could be if you were with me, if I hadn’t driven you away and fucked everything up so badly you couldn’t stand to be with me anymore.  I’ve tried though… no more pills or coke or weed.  All that’s gone.  I still… yeah, I still have a few drinks now and then, but not like I used to!  Not like I did when you’d sit there in a pub seething because I was being a complete ape and embarrassing you so much you wanted to be anywhere but there.  And throwing up on you when we got home, as the encore. That’s not me, anymore, love.  Not me at all.  Maybe a tiny bit, but only a few drinks.  Usually.  I love you, Mycroft. I still love you with everything in me and I hate myself for driving you off and I would do anything to have you back.  Just tell me!  Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.  I love you, you gorgeous  berk.  I love you and I’ll never stop.  I can’t.  And I hate being alone when I love you so much and you hate me and…”

      “I don’t hate you, Gregory.”

      “Then come back.”

      “I can’t.”

      “You can.”

      “Go home, Gregory.  You are at your office, are you not?  Go home and go to bed.”

      “You won’t be there.”

      “No, I will not.  But, you do not fare well when you are emotional and intoxicated and… I would not see you make poor choices because you are not thinking clearly.”

      “Not going to make poor choices.  I’m going to make very good choices, thank you very much.  Go out and have a LOT more drinks, maybe hook up with someone for a little or a lot of sex… I can’t have you, so what does it matter what I do, poor choices or not.”

      “Gregory… please just go home and…”

This time it was Mycroft staring at his mobile because there was nobody on the other end of the conversation to continue the call.  This… this was not good.  Gregory was a vibrant, exciting man and that was not a good thing when he was drunk, agitated and… sentimental.  DAMN HIM!  Why could he not simply let this die!  Did the oaf believe he was the only one who felt shredded?  Who saw the most beautiful light in their life ripped away and trudged through each day feeling as if something had been torn from their chest?  Did he think he was the only one who still… who still loved someone who they could not be with, no matter how great was the desire?

Though… Gregory did say he had made changes.  The drugs… the horrible, terrible drugs… they had savaged his Gregory, but if he really had purged them from his life… no.  No, do not think of such things.  It did not matter anymore.  It did not matter if Gregory was trying to find the person he once was… the person a rather unremarkable Mycroft Holmes had fallen so deeply in love with that the stuffy government suit finally learned what it meant to be happy.  And he _had_ been happy.  Happy, in love and poised to spend the rest of his life with the incorrigible scamp that shared his days.  Until it had fallen to pieces.  On a night much like tonight, actually.  Gregory calling because he was drunk and agitated and they’d fought… when the police brought his barely-coherent body home, stinking of debauchery and urine, the last straw had been reached.  But he _had_ been there when they brought Gregory home… nobody would be there tonight if the dunderhead assaulted himself again and… damn.  It shouldn’t affect him, it should not impact him in the slightest, but… DAMN!

      “Mycroft?”

Whirling so fast, he needed a second to blink away the dizziness, Mycroft stared at the person who had entered his office and, from the look on his face, had heard the thrust of the recent phone conversation.  The memory of the ‘banking district’ lie was certainly fresh in the man’s mind and this was one person who remembered well the aftermath of his break with Gregory.

      “Ah, yes.  I have that report that you mentioned this morning.  I believe the few little, shall we call them, nudges I set in place will see the situation managed most successfully in no more than a week.”

Whereas Mycroft Holmes’s position in the governmental hierarchy was a particularly nebulous one and his ability to make personnel shift about through the various seats of the bureaucracy was legendary, sometimes one had to risk prodding the badger if the badger was to keep its claws.

      “Tell me you are not thinking of going after him.”

      “I… I have no idea what you mean.”

      “He’s drunk and he’s only going to bring you pain if you try and help him.  Maybe, if we’re all lucky, he’ll do something so pathetic it’ll end up as a story in his own paper and that’ll be the end of his odious career.”

      “Gregory… he was once a highly-respected reporter.”

      “Was.  That’s the key word in that sentence.  He sold his integrity long ago and tried to take yours, too.”

      “No, that he did not do.  For all his faults, Gregory never tried to entangle me in his vices or the trouble they caused.  He was highly mindful of the potential fallout and, for that, I was and remain extremely grateful.”

      “Please don’t tell me you still love him.”

      “Very well.  I shall keep that information to myself.”

      “Mycroft… we have known each other a long time and I know what he did to you.  Don’t give him another chance.”

      “Another?  I cannot say, truly, I gave him any.”

      “Are you insane?  You forgave him time and time again for his… chaos!”

      “But, never after he tried to change.”

      “Because he never did!  The bastard never did a thing to change and don’t think that’s the case now, no matter what he might have told you.”

But… that was the one thing niggling in Mycroft’s mind that kept him from sending a car to wait at the club to collect the drunken editor and see him safely home.  Gregory never lied to him.  No matter how difficult his behavior became, Gregory did not hide anything or lie about where he was or what he had done.  And… when he made a promise to remain on good behavior for this or that function, the promise was kept.  If no promise was given, then it was as if the circus had come to town, but an _oath_ was always kept.  That was a large part of the current problem.  Up to the day he left their home, the man he loved _never_ gave a promise that he would ever change or mend his ways.  Tonight, though… was it right to, at the very least, deny the man an ear to hear his case?  Even if it altered nothing, it did not feel the equitable thing to do to turn away when Gregory said he had made progress.  An ear, at least.  It was not too much to ask.

      “Perhaps not, but I would not rest easy if I did not at least allow him to have his say.  If I do not, it shall forever be a sword in his arsenal and I would prefer he have no further arms with which to stir the proverbial pot of my days.  Already his mobile has become a weapon of mass destruction and I truly have not the stamina to weather a mightier salvo.  I shall see him home safely and that, in all likelihood, shall be the end of our association.  I believe he needs to say what he was not allowed when we parted ways and that can rankle, I suppose.  Fester until it needs lancing.”

Mycroft rose and donned his jacket, mentally laughing that it was not nearly the quality of garment his Gregory was used to seeing him wear.  A bit of downplaying his appearance and… presence… over the next few months was certainly in order.  Another thing his lover had always done for him – protected the secrets that made his work possible.  Not a single inkling of a story in any paper and there was no doubt who was reinforcing his own efforts to see that was the case.

      “You will regret this.”

      “Perhaps.  Perhaps not.”

      “He is not an honorable man, Mycroft.  The paper he runs…”

      “Would run well enough without him.”

      “Oh… is that your play?  Barter forgiveness for prying him from the center of the web?  He won’t thank you for it.”

      “Again, perhaps not.  But… if something _else_ was on offer…”

      “You’re thinking.  I despise it when you think.”

      “You rejoice when I think and I am well aware that you do.  However, there are many ways a man like Gregory could be of use in a more productive capacity.  There are always reputable newspapers that require competent and well-connected individuals for positions of responsibility and… well, we, ourselves, are not provided with the most successful of individuals in the area of information control and could do with more.”

      “You want him to work for us?”

      “ _Us_ is such a generic term, I find.  Whosoever treads these halls is part of the indefinable fold called ‘us,’ and they all come with their own secrets and skeletons, which should stay nicely buried for the good of the  nation.  Moreover, there are copious numbers of individuals whose secrets and skeletons would be greatly to our benefit if they were wrested from the cold, hard ground.  Some have talent with secrets and skeletons, others do not.”

      “And you say Lestrade does.”

      “Would you disagree?”

      “Strangely, no.  No, I wouldn’t.  Whether embedded in another news agency or working directly for the government, he _could_ be of use.  Limited use, but use, nonetheless.”

      “Then, I am certain you will be waiting with baited breath for the summary of his and my discussion.”

      “Only that bit.  You need to stay clear of him, personally, Mycroft.  I know how badly he hurt you.”

      “Yes, as do I.  Though, I wonder some days, if he, also, is the only one who can make the hurt go away.  Perhaps it is something I should explore in more depth.”

Mycroft’s weak, but determined smile led him out of his office and it was all he could do not to sprint to a car and make a start of things.  This would probably explode in his face, but… something in Gregory’s voice said there was the slimmest of chances it wouldn’t.  He had prevented wars on less assurance, though, this was, by far, a more critical venture…

__________

Oh Gregory…

      “You came!  You really came.  Mycroft… you’re here.”

Mycroft let out a deep breath and ran an eye over the very drunk Lestrade, a hauntingly-familiar sight, and felt a bit of his previous confidence began to wane.

      “I worried that you were not in a state to be safe in public.”

      “You worried about me.  You still love me.”

Lestrade smiled as widely as he could and hoped Mycroft couldn’t see how fast his heart was beating.  He’d come here to get as pissed as he could, find someone to shag and cry his eyes out tomorrow for being a complete waste of skin because no matter what he might ever do to be the man he once was, his Mycroft would never love him again so why not drink and fuck his way to the grave and be done with it once and for all.  But, Mycroft was here.  And looking at him with…”

      “Oh shite.  I look like hell, don’t I?”

      “That is not really relevant, Gregory.”

      “No, it is.  I told you I’d cleaned myself up and here I am looking like a tosser they’ve booted from a club for doing things they boot you from a club for and… I _am_ trying, love.  I haven’t been this drunk in over two years, almost since you left, though I got drunk a LOT for a few months after you moved out.  You believe me, don’t you?  I… you can talk to the bastards I work with and they’ll tell you.  No more partying for me!  I don’t go out with them when they’re off for things I don’t do anymore.  They’ll tell you.  I’m not lying, love, I’m not.”

Mycroft’s heart broke seeing the two small tears starting to roll from his former lover’s eyes and reached out to wipe them from Lestrade’s face, allowing the editor to reach up and take his hand.  And not let go.

      “I do, Gregory.  You never lied to me, did you?  No matter what other atrocities you perpetrated, you never lied.”

      “No!  I didn’t.  I couldn’t do that to you.  I never could lie to you.  You would have caught me out anyway, but that wasn’t the reason why.  I just couldn’t.  I just couldn’t.”

Lestrade stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, laying his head on his former-lover’s shoulder and breathed in the scent he thought he’d never smell again.  His Mycroft smelled so cool, but spicy… it always amazed him how his Mycroft could smell cool _and_ spicy, but he did and it was phenomenal.

      “Gregory?”

      “Hmmmm?”

      “You may release me now.”

      “Oh… do I have to?”

      “I’m afraid you do.  How else shall we get you home?”

      “We’re going home?”

      “No, _you_ are going to _your_ home.  However… we might use the time while we ride to have what is perhaps a long-overdue chat.  Does that sound agreeable?”

      ‘You won’t come home with me?”

      “That is a discussion for another time.  I will escort you to your home, though, and that is quite an improvement from what you previously imagined for your night, is it not?”

      “That’s true.  That’s very true.  Alright, escorting it is.  Do you have a car?”

      “Do I ever not have a car?”

      “I love you, Mycroft.”

      “I know you do, Gregory.  And, you also love my cars.”

      “Too true.”

Mycroft supported the highly wobbly newspaperman towards the door after tossing onto the bar a rather large amount of cash for the even larger amount of alcohol his Gregory had surely consumed, and purchased for others, then carefully got him into the rear of the waiting car.

      “This is one of the _nice_ cars.”

      “I thought it appropriate.”

      “You’re not… this isn’t the the sort of car they use to bring people to the lunatic asylum, is it?”

      “No, not to my knowledge.  Do you… do you feel you need some time in a… restful location?  If so, I will ensure it happens and that it is kept completely confidential.”

      “What?  No… I told you that I wasn’t into that stuff anymore.  And there’s nothing else in my life I need rest for.  Nothing more in my life, that is.  My job is hard.”

      “I know and that is actually a part of what I would like to discuss with you.”

      “My job?”

      “Yes.”

      “Not us?”

Mycroft mourned the sudden loss of his Gregory’s rather boyish energy as the editor’s smile faded and a bit of sobriety seemed to creep into his brain.

      “Do you wish to speak of that?”

      “Not if you don’t want to.”

And, now, the perfect somber pout on the most perfect lips ever sculpted by evolution.  Gregory was certainly not going to make this easy on him, was he?

      “I find that, tonight, I am not so averse to the idea.  Though… I offer you no promises or encouragement, Gregory.  I am here, I admit, to give you a chance to speak your mind.  You have been most anxious for my attention of late and I… please, Gregory, I would hear what you have to say.”

Lestrade looked out of the window and harbored a peevish suspicion that Mycroft was simply playing with him, but it died a very quick and humiliating death.  That was not his Mycroft’s game, at least not with him.  Mycroft was the supreme manipulator, but _never_ with him.  He never lied to Mycroft and Mycroft always played fair with him.  It was one of their unspoken rules and both followed it to the letter.

      “I would say that I fucked up.  I know I fucked up and I hate myself for it.  I had the most wonderful person in the world and I let him slip through my fingers.  No, actually, I put my foot against your arse and kicked you away.  You’re the only person I’ve ever truly loved, Mycroft, and if there was any way to turn back the clock, I would.  I would do it without any hesitation.  I would never have made the choices that led me into places I really didn’t want to be.  I knew it then, too!  I wanted to be home, with you, but it got lost in everything going on around me.  I was having a fucking marvelous time, but I was miserable while I was having it.  It took shaking all of that off to really understand where I’d gone wrong, but, by then, it was more than too late.  You were gone, long gone, and weren’t coming back.  Here I was, being the man you _had_ loved, and you weren’t there anymore to love me.  I’d missed the boat.  Boat had sailed.  Sailed off and left me behind.”

      “And now, Gregory?  What would you do if you had another chance?”

      “Chance?  Chance for what?”

Yes, Mycroft, for what?  Why did you ask him that?  That was _not_ the purpose of this conversation.  Per se.  Let the man exorcise some ghosts, see him, with luck, settled in a more honorable area of his profession, but not… not _necessarily_ … broach testing the waters to see if the aforementioned boat could return to dock.  Ugh… nautical metaphors.  This was taking a turn for the maudlin, but how could it do otherwise?  His Gregory looked positively _defeated_.

      “Chance for us.”

      “Are you kidding?  You… Mycroft, I am the one person in this world you don’t play games with.”

      “Very true and this is not a game.  Though I have been warned against it…”

      “I can fucking guess by who.”

      “Be that as it may, though I have been warned against it, I realized that up to this point, you have never made any commitment to being… being again the man with whom I fell in love so many years ago.  You certainly did not before I left and, in the time we have been apart, you have given no indication that change was even the remotest of possibilities.  However, you have stated the situation is actually different from what I have come to believe and… and I am considering giving you the opportunity to prove to me that is the case.”

Lestrade fought against the confusion, emotion and alcohol in his mind and struggled to understand what he thought he’d heard.

      “You… I can try again?”

      “It is more appropriate, I believe, to say you can try.  _Again_ implies you have done so before and that, certainly, is not the case.”

      “No… I mean yes, that’s true.  That’s very true.  Can you… can you tell me…”

      “What?”

      “Do you love me?  Do you still love me after everything I did?”

That was the one question Mycroft hoped he wouldn’t have to answer because the answer hurt desperately, but he could not be less than honest if he was demanding the same from his companion.

      “Yes.  If you must know, yes I do.  I have spent the time these past several years laboring under that knowledge and, further, the knowledge that… that I shall always love you.  Regardless of whether or not we can ever again be together, I will always hold you in my heart.  There really is no other option for me, I’m afraid.  But, I tell you this with perfect honesty… I have lived these years without you and would manage twenty more if you again take up your previous habits.  I do love you, Gregory, but I do not _need_ you to survive.  If I extend to you another chance, expect it to be the final one and that I will not tolerate any further shenanigans such as you have been perpetrating these past several weeks if we again part company.  Do I make myself clear?”

That was actually a good question, because Lestrade’s head was swimming with shock and it was hard to pull himself together enough to answer.  He’d braced himself to hear that Mycroft didn’t love him anymore and that brace had been kicked out from under him so he could fall and fall and fall… but he wasn’t falling, was he?  Mycroft was giving him a chance to fly, instead.  All he had to do was take it and take it seriously.

      “You really mean that?  There could… we could be together again?”

      “It is not an impossibility.  I would hold you to your promise that you are done with drugs and the various behaviors that made living with you, ultimately, intolerable.”

      “That’s not a problem.  I am done with all of that, love.  Whatever proof you need, you’ll have.  I’ll get my entire staff to sign a…”

      “That might not be possible.”

      “What?”

      “There is another condition, I’m afraid, and it is a rather substantial one.”

      “Tell me.”

      “I cannot abide the work you do, Gregory.  You know that well.  When we were younger, I took great pride in your accomplishments.  You made a true difference in this world and that cannot be said for what you now do.”

      “I… you want me to quit my job?”

      “I do.”

      “But… I built that paper!  Not literally, but I raised it up from a few fucking scribbles on a napkin to a national…”

      “Disgrace.  This is not the legacy you want to leave behind.”

      “I did it, though.  I did that.  I built something and I can’t… I can’t just leave it behind.  Let it die…”

      “I doubt that it will.  There is always an audience for such sordid thing and it will endure, unfortunately.”

      “How will I pay my bills!  I’m not going to live off of you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      “Not at all.  I would _never_ suggest such a thing.  I would simply propose a new employment option in your field of interest.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “There are other newspapers and news agencies.  Any would benefit from your talents, your true talents.  You were a highly-skilled reporter, Gregory, and, for awhile, as highly-skilled an editor.  It would not be difficult to relocate you to something more deserving of your gifts.  Or…”

      “Or what?”

      “There is governmental service.”

      “A government press man?  Boring.”

      “Correct, that is why I am not suggesting it.  Consider, though, a more personalized position.  You _are_ gifted, my dear, and those gifts could be highly valuable in the various halls of government.”

      “Are you kidding?  Wait, did I ask that already?”

      “The exact details of your employment, regardless of the final profile of the situation, can be negotiated once you have slept and had time to consider my words carefully.  And do consider them carefully, Gregory.  I love you, but the only man I can… live with… is one I can respect.  That, ultimately, is why I left you and that is what I must regain to return to you.”

Lestrade wrestled with wanting to shout, cheer, scream, kiss, punch… How could he leave his job?  The job he clawed his way to get.  The job he spent countless sleepless nights chasing stories to finally have as his own.  The job that made him feel dirty most of the time  and if he tried to lie to himself and say he didn’t know he’d lost his Mycroft’s respect, he’d probably short-circuit because the lie would be lethally massive.  He’d clawed his way to that job and clawed his own soul apart to get it.  Lost more of it keeping the fucking thing.  Lost everything, really.  Lost Mycroft.  He could get him back, though.  Just… be the man he really was.  Stop reading the real papers and reminiscing about the days when that had been _him_ with his name above a good and important story.  Start thinking about what it would be like to be the person seeing one of those papers do the work it was meant to do.  And, maybe, doing a few things for the government types on the side.  Or as the main dish.  That might work, too.  Mycroft was right… he needed to think.  Sleep and think.  And maybe throw up a little because his stomach was starting to feel queasy…

      “Ok.  I can do that.  I can think, I mean.  You’re right, I can’t think very well right now and it’s not right to you to give you an answer when I’m drunk and getting sick…”

      “Oh no.”

      “I can hold it.  But not too long.  Are we close?”

      “I believe we are.  That is your flat up ahead.”

      “Can you… can you say ‘our flat?’  Just once.”

      “No promises or encouragements, Gregory.”

      “Please.”

      “I will not dishonor you that way.  However…”

Mycroft knew it was a mistake, but leaned in anyway and pressed his lips to Lestrade’s, losing himself for a few moments in the taste and feel of kissing the man who still owned his heart.

      “Will that suffice as a substitute?”

      “It will.  Can we do it again?”

      “Consider it an incentive to make a prudent decision in the days to come.”

      “I like incentives.”

      “I know you do.”

      “Remember when you used to tie me to the bed and not let me come until…”

      “Yes, my memory is most impeccable.  Now, will you be alright tonight, Gregory?  No, I am not offering to spend the night with you, but I _will_ see someone assigned here if you feel you might need assistance.”

      “No, I’m fine.  I’ll vomit a few times and sleep late and I’ll be fine.  Can I… is it alright if I phone?  Not a lot, not to be a bother, but once or twice tomorrow, maybe, while I work things out in my head?  I’m… I’m not sure, even, how much I’m going to remember and I want to make sure I remember everything perfectly before I give you an answer.”

      “You may and I will gladly discuss in whatever depth you like any and all aspects of tonight’s conversation.”

      “Thank you.  Really, Mycroft, thank you.  I love you and thank you and can I have just one more kiss.”

      “Will you leave the car immediately afterwards?”

Lestrade opened the door and shakily stood on the curb, beaming at his cleverness.

      “I’ve already left!  Kiss now?”

This was definitely the Gregory Lestrade he knew well.  Rogue.

      “One, only.”

Which was all the signal Lestrade needed to lean in and take another kiss, letting this one bloom in heat until he was wondering who was moaning and realizing it was him.

      “I adore your kisses, love.”

      “And now you are off to bed.”

      “Last chance to join me.”

      “Goodnight, Gregory.”

      “Goodnight, Mycroft.  I love you.”

      “And… and I love you.”

The sight of the editor of one of the most powerful newspapers in the nation doing a victory dance on the cement in front of his upscale building was one that nicely warmed Mycroft’s heart and it kept warming as he watched Lestrade dance his way towards the entrance and make his way inside.  Only then did Mycroft give the signal for the car to continue on.  Now, the ball, as they said, was entirely in Gregory’s court.  He could only hope that, when the alcohol burned off, their conversation seemed something that his lover… former lover… found agreeable.  Only time would tell, but that time was going to crawl until he had an answer…

__________

Staring at the liquor bottle on his desk, so far untouched, Lestrade took another drag of his cigarette and let the events of the past night play again through his head.  Mycroft had come to find him.  Find him and… put something in his hands that he’d given up hoping he’d ever get.  No, that wasn’t entirely true.  He always held out hope.  It had gotten bad this past month or so just as it did last year and the one before when their anniversary came close.  They _always_ celebrated the anniversary of moving in together and, before now, he’d been able to resist phoning or sending a card, but not this year.  This year it had slithered under his skin and he’d responded by acting like a child trying to get attention.  Which he _was_.  Trying to get his Mycroft’s attention so he could hear his voice or maybe, just maybe, get him out so they could have a drink or a meal and he could see his beautiful Mycroft in the flesh.

Which he could do as much as he wanted if he simply jettisoned this fucking job and walked towards something new.  It shouldn’t be this hard to decide!  This job had ruined him and ruined _them_ and he should be thrilled to be rid of it.  But he wasn’t.  Not entirely, at least.  He had built all of this.  His hard work and fighting with the owner and nobody, not a single person, could deny he succeeded.  This was his baby and Mycroft wanted him to abandon it.  It was understandable, more than understandable, really, but… it was hard.  He didn’t have anything else.  This was his, well, Mycroft had said legacy and that was the truth of it.  How do you turn your back on something like that?

You make a new one, that’s how.  You snatch a new opportunity and make the most of it.  This time, he wouldn’t have to start at the bottom, either.  Mycroft wouldn’t have made his offer if he didn’t plan on this being something a man in his position would find appealing.  A good business decision.  Something smart and not going backwards at this stage of life.  Mycroft wouldn’t do that to him.  Mycroft loved him.  He still loved this shabby reporter after all the terrible things he’d done.  That wasn’t a love he deserved, maybe, but he’d give thanks every day for it and if he walked away from the possibility of bringing that love fully back into his life, he was a fucking moron.  The man he adored and a respectable job covering some real news… that was good.  That was very good.  Why was he hesitating?  Oh yes, his fucking pride.  Well, that could consider itself tossed in the bin because stupid, juvenile Greg Lestrade was dead and smart, adult Greg Lestrade was back in control.

Picking up the phone, Lestrade placed a call and crossed his fingers that it would be answered in person.

      “Yes?”

      “You stole my line.”

      “Pardon?”

      “You stole my line, love.  It’s me that supposed to be saying yes.”

Mycroft felt his heart stagger through a few uneven beats and was exceedingly glad he was alone in his office at the moment.

      “Gregory… are you certain?”

      “As certain as I was the day I asked you to live with me when all I had to my name was… my name.  And a solid byline, but that’s beside the point.  I’m saying yes to everything, so I hope you’ve got an idea of what I’m going to do for work because… this is my last day here.  Fuck the notice, they can put a chimp in my chair and nobody will know the difference.”

      “We may discuss that very thing tonight at dinner.”

      “Really?”

      “I was considering the small Italian café you find so irresistible.”

      “Ravioli?”

      “Of course.  Perhaps a small candle on the table to bolster the atmosphere, as well.”

      “You know, Mycroft… it’s actually close to dinner time right now.”

      “For some.  The sun has set, so I suppose that signals the onset of the dinner-hour zone of the day.”

      “I can be at your office in half an hour.”

Mycroft looked at the mountain of papers on his desk, thought a moment, and put a paperweight on top of the stack as a symbolic putting to bed of his responsibilities for the time being.  There were far more important things to tend to at the moment…

      “I shall be waiting.  And Gregory… do drive carefully.  I would hate to dine alone.”

      “With ravioli on the horizon?  My zombie will be there if I’m not.”

      “Excellent.”

      “Mycroft… can I say it?  Sober, I mean?”

Not that Mycroft had to ask what ‘it’ was.  That was not even the smallest question in his mind…

      “Yes.  I would like that very much, actually.”

      “I love you, Mycroft.  And I’m happy I’ll have the chance to love you again the way you deserve.”

      “And I love you, Gregory.  I am very much looking forward to being courted.”

      “What!”

      “Did you think I was simply moving back in with you?”

      “Well… yes!”

      “Pshaw… I believe a slow and measured approach is far more appropriate.”

      “We’re dating again?”

      “We did have a marvelous time dating, did we not?”

Lestrade thought a moment, then began laughing the first free and truly happy laugh he’d enjoyed since Mycroft had said goodbye.

      “That we did.  An incredible time, actually.  And, you do remember, we enjoyed a _lot_ of sex while we were dating.”

      “Oh, I have not forgotten.  However, I do not do such things on a first date, so be on alert that I will repel any untoward advances most forcefully.”

      “I am duly warned.  How about on the second date?”

      “That rather depends on the quality of the first date, wouldn’t you agree?”

      “Thirty minutes.  I’ll be there in thirty minutes and not a second more.”

Lestrade dumped his mobile into his pocket, gathered his coat and tossed the few personal items he cared about into his briefcase.  As an afterthought, he grabbed a piece of paper and wrote ‘Fuck Off I Quit’ in large block letters, pinning it to his chair so someone might notice.  Not that he cared.  He had a date to meet and squire an incomparable man to dinner.  Dating Mycroft had been glorious when they were young, now that they were older… oh, this was going to be amazing…


End file.
